Home and Away
by sweetdreams-sunnymornings
Summary: Mercenary Ranger's alternate ending to Sizzling Sixteen. Babe. HEA. SPOILERS for Sixteen/ alternate end, continuation. One Shot. Morelli isn't bashed but he's not happy.


**SPOILERS! __****Sizzling Sixteen** SPOILERS

**all fanfic disclaimers apply.**

A/N One of the great things about writing fanfiction is that we can change things to suit our own ideas of how things should be...and we can continue the story long after the author has typed her last words. This is my continuation/ ending of Sizzling Sixteen,

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**a/n: in my Mercenary Ranger world, Sizzling 16 take place around High 5. But the events Ranger deals with are current to our present day, 2010. You can read more about my version of Ranger in The Price is Right and The Math Teacher. Enjoy!**

**sections in italics are from _Sizzling 16_.**

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**Home and Away**

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**.**

_**from 16:**_

"_I'm going __**out of country**__ for a few weeks. Tank will watch out for you. And I'll be on my cell phone. I'll be in touch when I get back..." p.308_

_"Be careful," I said. Ranger smiled at that. Hard to tell if he was smiling because someone cared enough to say be careful, or if he thought the idea was funny. _p. 63

.

_**after the Bluttovich arrest at the end of Sizzling 16**_

**I snapped my encrypted sat phone shut**, made eye contact with Tank. I jerked my chin a fraction and we both shoved off from the conference table in FBI headquarters in Newark.

"Mr. Manoso! We need to finish the Bluttovich debrief!" barked the agent-in-charge, a panicked look on his face.

I stopped at the door and said, "You know everything I know."

In the elevator Tank looked at me with a question in his eyes. I didn't answer because I don't trust the FBI not to bug their elevators, not even in a dinky side office in Newark NJ. In the car I said, "General XXX. Wants me ASAP. You're in charge here. Watch out for Steph, okay?"

"Sure, boss, but..."

I slanted a look at him and he shut up, concentrated on driving the big Ford truck he'd driven to pick me up in Pennsylvania. We didn't need to discuss it. I know Tank's not happy when he stays home while I run a job out of country. But that's his job.

My job is—undercover. And so "black" I don't really exist.

... ... ...

**The General was waiting for me** in my showcase, designer decorated fake office on Rangeman's third floor when I got back to Trenton.

He stood when I walked in and said, "Colonel Manoso."

"Sir." We shook hands. I'm polite but the days when I salute and grovel are long gone.

We sat and the general said carefully, "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"No problem."

"Colonel, what's the point of my coming to you in Trenton if you're not going to be here when I arrive?"

He was miffed. The point was: I didn't have to schlep down to DC and my time is more valuable—or at least more expensive—than that of a four-star general-(go figure), but I kept silent. He gave up and moved on. "Have you been following the recent unrest in Chechnya? The recent suicide bombing and so on?"

"Just what is in the news, sir. The eastern Euro-Asian border is not my area of operations. Nor is Russia."

"Well now see, that's where you are wrong, Ranger." Oh shit, he was getting uncharacteristically friendly, calling me _Ranger_. I'd be Carlos next. I like and respect this man but he has a lot of, well, baggage. And I think maybe he is scared of me.

"I was at a White House antiterrorism briefing earlier today and the President is very concerned about the escalating tension in Chechnya. He needs to display strength to our NATO allies who are in a supervisory position in that arena. But he is hampered by the fact that the intell is murky at best. What was discussed—what is _required_ —is a trusted operative to go there and infiltrate. In a covert manner, obviously. Someone who we can trust to make the judgment call in regard to the various factions, particularly those bent on terrorism, those who use Islamism to form their own ends. Someone who can identify them and _render them harmless_."

I stared at him.

"And then the conversation wandered off-topic, about that Bulgarian gangster you took down yesterday...and I realized you'd be perfect for the job. In Chechnya." He didn't smile but he sat back and relaxed, as if to say: _all is well in covert warfare now. Ranger Manoso is on the job._

Not.

I stayed silent.

"Well, what's that look? Yeah, yeah, you think you can do stone-faced but I know what you're thinking! What's the problem? Please don't try to tell me you didn't talk Bulgarian to that guy Bluttoffski, Bluttoni, whatever, because I am sure you could if you wanted to."

"So far as I am aware, sir, they do not speak Bulgarian in Chechnya. And Bluttovich speaks English." With a New Jersey accent.

"You know, Colonel, the look on your face, I'm like to think there's a naked man in our barn! What is your problem?" His Texas twang got deeper as he got more nervous. The naked man line was his down-home, country boy version of saying there's a five hundred pound elephant in the room. Aka me.

Good thing I understand General-speak. I said, "General, the conflict in Chechnya was what, 10 years ago? I was in college, sir. I've never been there."

"And you don't speak Czech?" He sounded dismayed. Not to mention confused, geographically. Chechnya, a tiny mountainous country the size of, oh—Connecticut? is over towards the 'stans, not in Europe, sandwiched between Germany and Poland, I think. And there are a number of Chechen dialects. They are an Asian tribal people, not Europeans who would speak Czech.

I debated explaining the two widely separated and diverse countries to my General, but then I decided to let it go. Focus on the job and so on. And actually I do speak some Chechen, slightly more fluently than I speak Bulgarian in which my conversation runs to _give me a beer_ and _throw down your weapons, asshole—_ because there were Chechen mercenaries working with the Taliban in Afghanistan and I picked up enough to do some crude interrogation. But I'd never pass as a native. I tried not to sigh. The general looked smug however so he must have read my body language. He said hopefully, "The money is good?"

_If I'm dead, it won't be enough_. And I was less than thrilled to be leaving Stephanie. I'd made progress with her this past week but left alone in Trenton with Morelli on the prowl, I'd be lucky if she wasn't engaged when I got back.

The general said, "Carlos? You in?"

I gave a faint nod. Someone has to do it, may as well be me.

... ... ...

_**later**_

**The general had rubbed his hands together**, looking pleased. He shook my hand again and told me I should meet my intell contact at TGI Friday's out on route 80 at 18-hundred hours. Now I looked at the happy hour crowd and tried not to breathe the saturated fat laden air. Friday's consistently scores as the most unhealthy chain food in America. So I'm guessing the entire world. Not sure if this was the General's little joke or bad karma.

The hostess cruised by and said, "Mr. Manoso? Your party is waiting for you in a booth in back."

She beckoned with her stack of menus and I followed her, fighting my annoyance that the DIA (NSA? CIA? HLS? JATTF?-who knows) squirrel had used my "real" name. I reached out and caught the hostess's arm lightly. She turned, raised inquiring eyebrows. I asked, "How did you know who I was?"

"The lady said you'd be the hottest guy I've ever seen. And yep, you win, no contest, handsome." She leaned closer, pressed her breasts against my arm and added, "She seems pretty, um, old? Is she your mom? Because, I like, get off at eleven if you'd be interested in a drink later. Or something?"

"No. Thank you, but no."

I walked to the booth she pointed to and sat facing a woman of indeterminate age, maybe older than my mother and not even vaguely as beautiful or as classy. This woman was dark, with a lot of lines; had that old gypsy fortuneteller thing going. Too much black eyeliner and red lipstick.

She knew her Chechnya though and the noise in the restaurant covered her briefing: "You're headed to the capital, Grozny. A flat has been rented in your name, your cover name, of course." Card with printed address. "Pretend you're an expat returnee." She shoved a US passport and a Chechen passport across the greasy table. "Keep a low profile." I eyed her with a bit of disdain.

She waved her hand at me. "If at all possible," she added, her used-up face skeptical. "Weapons and support available at the US embassy. If you have problems."

Huh. _Useless._ I'd pick up weapons on the street, black market. A knife is fine.

She went on, "If we want to find out who's behind this insurgent movement, you'll have to do what the old-time spies used to do. You know, KGB vs. CIA? Natasha and Boris?"

Rocky and Bullwinkle? "You mean, bluff?"

"Yep. And as per the President's directive, you need to do it without revealing what we know."

"Which is nothing, ma'am."

"Right, right. But the President doesn't need to know we know nothing."

I nodded. _Good thing I'm getting paid extra for this job._

She sat back, slurped up the remains of her third Mudslide and said, "You don't look Chechen, Manoso."

"What's a Chechen look like?"

"Little, mean, dark? _Foreign?_ Not big and hot and handsome. Dominican? Puerto Rican?'

"Cuban."

"Oooh." She licked her lips. Ick.

I said coolly, "Don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll blend."

"Better you than me!"

I wasn't really interested because again: all that money in my bank—but I politely asked, "So if you're such an expert on the area and the politics, why don't you go?"

She laughed a little."Well for one thing, I'm just an old spy." She led up a gnarly hand with long coral acrylic nails and old nicotine stains. "Two: _I'm_ not an assassin." I winced little at her zinger. "And three, this is the biggie, young man, I fuckin' hate Grozny. Two years I rotted in that hellhole, back in the late nineties, I ain't ever going back. Be warned. And don't drink the vodka."

"No."

... ... ...

... ... ...

_**Back home in Trenton**_

_[pp.308-9] I took shower and was about to dry my hair when my doorbell buzzed. I wrapped myself in a bath towel, went to the door and looked out the security peephole. Morelli._

_"What?" I asked, holding the door partly open._

_"Can I come in?''_

_"I'm not dressed."_

_"That's perfect," he said. "because I have something for you to wear." And he dangled a lacy pink thong from his finger. "I stopped by the mall on the way home just now. I thought you'd look pretty in this."_

**I looked at the little pink panties—**I am _so_ not a pink kinda girl, just not a good look for me—then back up at Joe. I studied his dear familiar face for a second. He tried for puppy dog hopeful-slash-cute, but his player cockiness showed through. Not a good look for _him_. I sighed a little. Sure, he pisses me off, but...

And then like a slide change on one of Ranger's PowerPoint mission plan thingies, Joe's image faded away and I was seeing Ranger, last night, me leaning into his back, wanting his shirt off, wanting to undress him, wanting to kiss him.

[p.273] _I was leaning over the back of Ranger's chair, reading the computer screen, trying hard not to kiss his neck. He always smelled great, like his Bulgari Green Tea shower gel. His black t-shirt spanned his biceps. He back looked athletic under his shirt. I thought it would look even better without the shirt. All I had to do was touch my lips to his neck and the shirt would be gone._

Then a few minutes later...his big warm hands pulling my little white shirt over my head.

[p.276] _He closed the space between us and kissed me. Our tongues touched, and I pressed against him...And he stripped my white stretchy shirt off. He kissed me again..._

Ranger saying, _"You owe me."_ Just a hint of indulgent laughter in his voice.

He said it again tonight, more serious this time: _"Tank is here to watch over you. And I'll be on my cell phone. I'll be in touch when I get back. You owe me." _[p.308]

But I didn't want to owe him. No, I wanted it all.

In a flash, I flicked the panties from Joe's grasp into my fist and I calmly shut the door on my childhood.

Door slams. hard.

"Cupcake?"

Doorknob rattles.

"Hey! Cupcake?"

_Sorry, Joe, no Cupcakes here._

I pull on the pink panties and smile.

... ... ...

... ... ...

_**Grozny, Chechnya**_

**So okay, Natasha, as I called her** in my mind, was right. The place was sooty, cold—in June!—and poor. It had been devastated and rebuilt within the past decade—but not well-built. The regular people, like most of the people I see on these jobs, just wanted to survive. You know, fuck the wife, raise the kids, put a meal on the table, drink the paycheck every Friday. Normal.

But there's always _someone._ A problem, an issue. A fanatic. A leader with an agenda that violates human rights and common sense.

Only now, in the war-ravaged area known as Chechnya, there isn't. I caught a private flight back to Trenton, wondering what Steph was up to while I was gone.

... ... ...

**_Trenton_**

I parked my Porsche in her lot near the dumpster. I didn't see Morelli's green Subaru SUV or his cop POS. But this time I knocked. Just—in case. Footsteps behind the door then Stephanie's voice, a little cranky, whispered loudly, "Morelli! It's freakin' three AM! Go home! Take your tacky underpants and just—" The door opened a crack and she finished, "—give up...oh. Omigod." _Ranger._ Her lips formed my name, the name she knew—no sound.

The door shut in my face, the chain rattled and then the door swung open wide. Stephanie, crazy hair, little tank top-and-boxers, her pjs. _So adorable._ I took a deep breath. Oddly she smelled like my shower gel.

"Yo."

"Yo yourself. You're back."

"Yeah."

We're chronic idiots so we stood in strained silence for a few beats, eyes locked. I fought the strain and fatigue washing over me. Her eyes left mine and travelled down my uninjured body, back to my eyes. To my mouth.

I must have moved because she was in my arms, her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist.

"Steph...?"

"Welcome home."

_**the real end**_


End file.
